IT RAINS,
IT RAINS,
IT RAINS IT RAINS,
IT RAINS,
IT RAINS,
IT RAINS IT RAINS,
This is how this 'acclaimed' poet started off his ready at the coffee shop a few days ago. He looked so quiet, speaking softly in the mic, rustling his notes, announcing almost to himself that this was a children's poem. Then his eyes got all wide and he started shouting so loud as to almost reach falsetos, every word he spoke was the same note and his voice, scary. He started sweating, this small man with dopey glasses, I'm guessing in his forties. Spit came out of his mouth and onto his notes and the mic itself. His poems were mostly happy though, they were children poems he kept saying. He never took a moment to breathe, so his face would just get reder and reder the farther down the page he was.
It rains alright. It's been raining for a whole week. Rain, snow, sleet, dismal feelings. It hasn't been the spring rain that makes everything smell like the rich, rotting vegetation that peaks up above from the snowdrifts to signal that Spring is here! New life can begin and the old life will be there for the seed to be planted in. This rain was was heavy, unrelenting, enough to be noticed, enough to be soaked if you rode a bike, enough to make this May start out colder than February, enough for me to loose concentration and doddle around.
It rains in the morning. It rains as you take the bus to work late, the rain keeps you in bed too long after the alarm goes off, making you think of nothings, the sun that usually peaks out of your window doesn't get through the clouds that hide even the mountain tops, even those small, proud mountain tops, making you feel much much higher, and much more alone. It rains as your boss decides to doc your pay, sends you home and you walk across town in the rain.
It rains in the midday. It rains as you look for something to draw. Can't draw outside, the paper will get wet, you're drawings will get smudged, the expensive paper will get ruined. Stay inside and read something you've been putting off. Clean the house. You're flatmate is holding a party for her friend's birthday (funny, she didn't hold a party for you - you didn't want one, remember?) You don't want to get in the way and you want this house clean anyway.
It rains at dusk as you bike across town to the coffeeshop as the party begins at your house. You don't want to be a part of the party, the feeling of your mother's addiction makes you want to find some sort of way to give her some strength, some pride in herself in her struggle out of it. You won't drink right now, your mother needs you, even though you're thouands of miles away.
The rain, the rain. It wicks from the tires unto your pants and coat. You are smart enough to wear foul weather gear to be stripped off if you every get to the coffee shop. The bike path is dark but you notice the familiar trail and flashing lights on the side. The creek is fast and high. The bikepath is used as a flood control system for weeks such as this. The brake on your bike that's actually connected is wet like everything else, it doesn't brake, but makes funny little squeaks when you press the leaver. You almost run into those flashing lights and fences they must have put up that morning.
It rains at night as you eat a small snack, you're stomach feels too convoluted to take much in. The rain ties it together. You're outside of the coffeeshop with that snack and a large coffee. The patio has a ceiling, so no rain hits you and you can read. You brought things to write with, a sketch book, some fountain pens, but all you want to do is read until the place closes, which you do - the man locking up the outside tables and chairs tells you to it's time for you to go. You've been outside all night. The night progressivley gets colder. You have a black hoody and jeans soaked at the bottoms as much as your shoes and socks are soked all the way through. You don't mind the cold, but embrace it. It's a different feeling than the rain, different from your heartbreak, your confusion about that heartbreak, the sorrow for your mother, different from the drunken laughs back at your house. You like the shivering, you want to feel the shivering.
It rains after midnight as you make your way home, much more colder and miserable. It rains when you get back to your house and try to pretend the party isn't there and you're ex-girlfriend isn't there and her new guy isn't there and they're not all happy and you try to smile when she comes over to see how you're doing, since she's still your best friend (after a few people) and that the relationship that you had together probably never should have happened, that you two just are too different for each other, but you had some much fun with each other in the past and let's-not-forget-that and that she's happy now with the new guy. The new guy... the new GUY. You of course, don't like the new guy, you think he's ugly, that he's too quiet. You can't beleive the quickness of her recovery. You compare. It's worthless, so you stop. You sit around with a creme soda. The party ends soon. you're happy it's ending. The rain keeps up.
You go to sleep, probably where you shouldn't, but you asked her before. Her bed is much more warmer then yours. She'll need help holding her hair back soon in the bathrrom and fetching the aspirin, so you see it as a job. You can't sleep much, too much thinking going around and around. You think you should write it all down to get it out, but you wait till the morning to write about the rain.
